


Temporary Mistress

by sturner1805



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Widowed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sturner1805/pseuds/sturner1805
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, to decide his entire life's happiness: Chastened by Charles Bingley following Mr. Bennet's untimely death, Fitzwilliam Darcy determines he will offer marriage to Elizabeth Bennet, but she marries another. Years later, Elizabeth, now widowed, has vowed she will never marry again, and Darcy will have to win more than her heart to convince her to try marriage again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For updates on my writing please visit my blog at http://sophie-turner-acl.blogspot.com/

**Temporary Mistress**

A Pride and Prejudice Variation, with Parts Not Suitable for Those Who Have Not Reached Their Majority

**Prologue**

_May 29, 1815_

Near Meryton village, in Hertfordshire, two sisters who had always been particular friends were so fortunate as to live within three miles of each other. One was happily married, and while it would be impolite to say the other was happily widowed, it may be said that she was more content in her widowed state than she had been in her married one.

"My dear Lizzy," said the married sister, who was called Jane, to the other, "we are to have company at Netherfield soon – a small house-party, only, but I hope you will join in our dinners, and perhaps a ball, if I am able to convince Charles that we should have one."

"My year is very nearly complete," replied Elizabeth, who would have rejoined society earlier, if she could have done so without injuring her reputation. "I have for some time been desirous of participating in society, and I would be very pleased to make my re-entrance at Netherfield."

"Oh, Lizzy, I am so delighted you should say that," said Jane. "I must tell you, though, that Mr. Darcy is to be one of the party. I know you did not get on well with him, and I hope you shall be able to meet as polite acquaintances, at least."

"Jane, dear sister, it has been better than three years since I have seen him, although he did write to express his condolences on the death of my husband, which rather surprised me. I cannot say I am looking forward to making his acquaintance again, but I shall certainly be polite to him. I do wonder, though, at his coming to Netherfield. I had thought the breach between him and Charles to be irreconcilable."

"Charles is much too amiable to maintain an irreconcilable breach," said Jane, smiling as though to indicate how well her own amiable nature matched that of her husband. "He and Mr. Darcy met at White's last winter, and they have gradually renewed their acquaintance, with some apology – I understand – on the part of Mr. Darcy, who felt himself in the wrong for what occurred between them some years ago, although Charles says it was as much his fault as Mr. Darcy's."

"Well, I had not imagined Mr. Darcy capable of admitting wrongdoing in any matter, so I am quite surprised at what you say, Jane. I shall meet Mr. Darcy politely, as you ask, and perhaps if he is capable of admitting himself in the wrong, now, we shall get on better than we did before."

Before the two ladies could converse further, Mrs. Hill entered the parlour, and said, "Mrs. Collins, if you please, one of your tenants is in the kitchen, and requesting an audience with you."

Elizabeth rose, and smiled apologetically at her sister, who rose as well, and said she should be going anyway; there were a great many preparations to make for the house party. Thus they separated, Mrs. Bingley to make her return to Netherfield Park, and Mrs. Collins for Longbourn's kitchen.

* * *

 

_November 30, 1811_

Breakfast at Fitzwilliam Darcy's house in town, and Charles Bingley moping over the sideboard. Darcy surveyed his friend, and wondered if he had taken on an impossible task, in attempting to make Charles forget about Jane Bennet.

It had been easy enough at first. With the eager assistance of Charles's sister, Caroline, the flaws of Miss Bennet's family had been noted, and to these flaws Darcy had added, gently, the lack of evidence that Miss Bennet held any romantic affections for the man who stood dangerously close to becoming her particular suitor. Charles could rather easily be convinced in to believing these things, but things believed by Charles Bingley's head were not so easily absorbed by his heart, and this accounted for his moping over the sideboard.

This could be rectified, though, Darcy thought. He abhorred the idea of conspiring over anything, much less conspiring with Caroline Bingley, but he agreed with her that this was necessary, and that with a little distance from Jane Bennet, Charles would soon enough forget the young lady he had called his angel. In time, then, he might find another angel, one of more appropriate family and fortune.

Charles sat down with his plate, eventually, and the selections thereupon made it clear to Darcy that his friend's appetite had not been much affected, which he took as a positive sign. Time, time was all that was needed to make everyone forget of the Bennets, and time would be afforded to them here, along with every distraction London had to offer.

Darcy's plan seemed poised for success through breakfast, and the pot of coffee that followed it, taken leisurely in the drawing-room. Miller came in with the post, and there was a letter for Charles, which was studied silently for some time, before he attempted to comment upon it.

"My God," Charles said, "Mr. Bennet has passed. There was some trouble with his heart, and apparently he succumbed to it."

"Charles, are you quite sure?" Darcy asked, for his mind was racing as to how this affected Elizabeth Bennet, and as he had determined to think no more of any Bennets, this was most troubling.

"Sir William Lucas wrote to me of it," Charles said. "He has been assisting Mr. Phillips and Mr. Collins with the preparations for the funeral."

"Those poor girls," Darcy murmured, although he thought only, _poor Elizabeth!_

"I think the same, Darcy. I think I should go to them – to Miss Bennet," Charles said. "I know you said you do not think she has affection for me, but everything has changed, and I am not sure that she did not – "

"Charles, I beg you, do not act hastily. Miss Bennet will only be more vulnerable in her present situation, for losing all her security in life. I expect she would gladly accept anyone that came to her and seemed likely to secure her a home. Is that all you seek in a wife – gratitude, for putting a roof above her head?"

It was at this moment that Fitzwilliam Darcy lost his particular friend, for Charles Bingley, not ever before having been required to seriously examine anything in his life, did now examine his present situation, and his most recent courtship, and said, "Err – no. What I seek in a wife is a sweet, amiable temper, a pretty turn of countenance, and a respect of my thoughts, and all of these things I had in Miss Bennet, and you convinced me I should not pursue her because of her family, and because she was not attached to me."

Darcy nodded, acknowledging that all his friend said was true, and wondering what was to come next.

"I am going to go back to Netherfield," Charles said. "I hope Miss Bennet is still able to see me in her present situation, and if she is, that she shall accept my hand in marriage. For if such an exquisite creature is marrying me for my fortune, I will care not. I will enjoy my sweet wife, and even if she does not love me as I do her, I have no doubt of her faithfulness and continuing sweet temper."

"This is precisely why we determined to separate you from Miss Bennet," Darcy said, unthinkingly.

"You _determined_? You mean this was planned? All of these seemingly casual conversations about Miss Bennet were the result of some determination between you and my sister?"

"Yes, Charles, we thought it best for you."

"Did no-one think perhaps I might be able to determine what is best for myself!" Charles shouted, growing a concerning shade of red in his countenance. "Do you all think I am a child, rather than the head of my household? A feeble-minded half-wit, that you must conspire around?"

"That is not at all what we thought. But a man in love may not think so clearly – "

"I am thinking clearly enough! I am thinking that if there is a woman in this world that I love, and she is a gentleman's daughter, and I can secure her hand, there is absolutely no reason why I should not!"

"Charles, think of what you are saying. Think of what you are taking on – not just Miss Bennet, but the whole family. Are you prepared to have the mother and the silly sisters living under your roof at Netherfield?"

"I am not so selfish as you, Darcy. If I can ease Miss Bennet's present distress by offering a home to her family, that will be pleasing to me, not abhorrent."

"You think me selfish?" Darcy asked, prepared to present Charles with any number of arguments to the contrary. Yet each of his arguments seemed to dissipate, as soon as they formed, and he listened to his friend with growing concern:

"Of course I do, Darcy, although if I must sum you up in one word, I suppose it would be proud, and I suppose I would say you have spent so long in pride of the Darcy name, and presuming what those who hold the Darcy name must do – and apparently what friends of those who hold the Darcy name must do – that you have always acted selfishly. You do not want me to marry Jane Bennet because it would reflect poorly on you, to have a friend make such a connexion."

"That is not why I discouraged the connexion, Bingley."

"Oh, isn't it? Perhaps it is not why you discouraged the connexion. Perhaps you could not bear to see me happy, while you wallow in your own misery. Yes – misery. You will spend your whole damn life worrying over maintaining your position in society, and you will never do anything to pursue your own happiness. Now that I am presented with the choice, I have no interest in being like you. I will pursue my own happiness, and I will ask for Miss Bennet's hand, and I do not care if you do not like it, you arrogant arse."

Charles set his coffee cup down with crashing violence, then, the remnants of his coffee splashing onto the tea table. Any other man would have strode out immediately, but Bingley took out his handkerchief, rapidly mopped up the spilt drops of coffee, then stood and walked out of the room, ending his acquaintance with Fitzwilliam Darcy. The man who had until now been his particular friend watched his exit in stunned silence, desperately trying to conjure something to say to make him return. As a man who did not make close friends easily, Darcy felt the deepest desperation over losing one, and as the result of his own actions. But he could not bring himself to say he had been wrong. That might, he realised, be further evidence of his pride.

He began a study, then, examining his thoughts, words, and actions in the whole course of his life, but particularly since his father had died, searching for selfishness and pride. In shame, he found them in abundance, and he sat there, alone, considering how he had come to err so grievously, and how he could affect the changes in his character he now knew he needed to make. This was not the only thing he considered, however, for he could not help but wonder what it would be like to do what Charles had spoken of: what would it be like to pursue his own happiness?

* * *

 

_November 27, 1811_

It happened so quickly, they did not even have time to send for Mr. Jones. They were recounting all that had happened at the Netherfield ball over breakfast, when Mr. Bennet complained of a strange sensation in his arm. His wife said it sounded precisely like her nervous attacks, which silenced him for a while, but Elizabeth could see he was truly not well. His countenance appeared pale, glistening with sweat, and she asked if they should send for the apothecary.

"Not yet, Lizzy. I think I shall just go and sit quietly in my library for a time," he said.

He rose, took a few steps toward the door, and collapsed, clutching his chest. He was surrounded by his wife and daughters, exclaiming in their shock and fear, and Elizabeth, who was as shocked and afraid as any of them, but kept her exclamations to herself, was forced to push her way between Mrs. Bennet and Catherine, to see if she could ascertain what ailed her father. He gasped, and whispered, "Lizzy," but could say no more, and Elizabeth focused her attentions on trying to soothe him, for his affliction seemed most painful. Minutes later, he was gone.

Elizabeth was not allowed the luxury of shock, or grief, for her mother and younger sisters descended in to hysterics, her mother worst of all, and someone was required to manage things, to order the servants to carry the body of their master to the parlour, to lay him out there and cover him. Jane was quiet, but clearly as shaken as the rest of them, at first, although Elizabeth found that if she gave her sister a command, it would be followed, and that Jane seemed better, when she had tasks to accomplish. As for Mr. Collins, he determined his proper function was to assist with prayer, and quoting bible verses, which perhaps soothed Mary a little, but was of little benefit to anyone else in the household.

Eventually, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips came to lend their assistance, and Elizabeth went up to the bedchamber she shared with Jane, to rest for a few minutes, and have a little time in privacy, to finally adjust to what had happened, and fully feel her grief. She was not alone for five minutes, before there came a knock at the door.

It was Mr. Collins. She knew what he was going to ask, and she was horrified by it. Her father was not even cold, much less buried. That he would choose this time, of her greatest shock and vulnerability, that he would not even allow her half-an-hour of quietude, before forcing her to think of where her family was going to live, was completely abhorrent to her.

In that moment, she hated him, and yet she knew she would have to marry him regardless.

* * *

 

_December 6, 1811_

Darcy heard no more from his friend. He spent the days following the breach in quiet reflection, continuing to be most affected by what Bingley had said, and shameful of his past behaviour. He did not know if Charles had sensed his tendre for Elizabeth Bennet, and if therefore his comment about Darcy's pursuing his own happiness had been meant specifically, and not generally. Darcy thought about this – this alien concept of doing what he wished, without a thought of connexions or society, of asking the loveliest creature of his acquaintance to marry him. Yet if Charles thought these things of him, what must _she_ think?

Still, he considered it, until one day, there was an announcement in the papers, short, simple, and incredibly wounding. It was not the one he had been expecting. "Miss E. Bennet, of Longbourn, in Hertfordshire, is betrothed to Mr. W. Collins, vicar of Hunsford, in Kent."

_Oh, Elizabeth, what have you done?_ was his only thought at first. Yet it was clear enough what she had done: she had acted to secure a home for herself and the remains of her family, and accepted the offer of that odious parson cousin of hers. Charles must by now have made his return to Netherfield, but not his offer, and poor Elizabeth had sacrificed happiness for the security of what remained of her family.

Darcy thought, in that moment, of going to Hertfordshire, of staying at an inn, if Charles would not have him at Netherfield, of making, in essence, a counter-proposal to her. Surely she would prefer him to Mr. Collins! Yet every reason to order his trunks packed and his carriage readied seemed to be followed by two reasons why he should not do so. The mother and the silly sisters could be set up in a separate establishment, somewhere in Derbyshire but not _too_ near to Pemberley. To ask her to break her existing engagement would be substantial, but she was a woman, and could do so if she decided in Darcy's favour. But, acting on the perceived impossibility of a marriage between them, he had been guarded with his affections; any proposal from him would likely come as a surprise to her. Thinking of this returned his thoughts to conjecturing as to her opinion of him. If it was poor – if she would refuse him, if she would choose that horrid man over him – it would be his undoing. He thought of how it would be, of riding from an inn to Longbourn, of requesting a private audience, and the myriad ways in which she could refuse him.

It would be better to write to her, he thought. Putting his proposal in a letter would enable her to spend some time in deliberation between her two offers, to be informed of his affections in a manner that would be better done than what he would likely manage in speaking. And if she did choose to refuse him, whether out of preference or out of honour in keeping her present engagement, at least he would not have to hear her speak it. The shattering of his soul could occur in private, in the comfort of his study, with a decanter of brandy at hand.

Darcy gathered his writing things, and after spending the better part of the morning and a quire of paper on various drafts, finally arrived at:

"Dear Miss Bennet,

"Please accept my sincerest condolences on the death of your father. I believe you and he were close, and I am sure this makes what would already have been a difficult time all the more unbearable. Having lost both of my own parents, I can say that time will heal the wound somewhat, but never completely. I still feel their absence, even now, and believe I shall for the rest of my own life.

"Having seen news of your engagement in the papers, I should now congratulate you upon it. However, I cannot, for Mr. Collins has secured the very hand in marriage that I myself desire, and while I abhor breaking a commitment, and expect you do as well, I am going to request you do just that.

"I admire you greatly, and I have felt my affections towards you growing for some time, and wish I had declared myself sooner, before another offer could be made to you. As I now find myself second, I will not attempt to compare myself with your betrothed, but will make the case for myself as best I can.

"Pemberley brings in more than 10,000 pounds every year, and sometimes nearer 11,000. Of that, I had thought 700 pounds an appropriate amount for your pin money, but that may be increased if you think it insufficient for your needs as a married woman. Your jointure, on my death, I would settle at 1,200 pounds, so you would have a sufficient amount to set up your own establishment. I do regret to say that Pemberley does not have a dower house, so this may be necessary. I would also set up an establishment for your mother and younger sisters, and would ensure Mrs. Bennet and any of your sisters who do not marry are kept in comfort for the whole of their lives.

"You would have your own bedchamber and dressing-room, both at Pemberley and my London house, and no expense would be spared in decorating them to your taste, as well as any updates you desire within the remainder of either house. Pemberley is a large house, but my housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, has held that post for fourteen years and is a most diligent and trustworthy woman, so you may decide for yourself what proportion of your time you wish to spend in household management.

"I would hope for a marriage in which your affections matched my own, but I fully understand they may not, at the time of your reading this letter. I would ask only that you allow me to do all I can to grow them over time. I await your response, and remain –

"Your most humble and obedient servant,

"FITZWILLIAM DARCY"

Once he had read it through several times, and determined it to be what he wished to say, and of appropriate tone to be proposing marriage to a young woman who had just lost her father and accepted the hand of her cousin, Darcy then turned his mind to how to get it to her. It would not be appropriate to send it to her directly; the best thing to do would have been to send it to Charles, and ask that his friend give it to her discreetly. But as that was not an option, he eventually decided to send it under cover to Mrs. Bennet. He did not think that woman liked his company, but he also did not think she would turn down the possibility of her daughter marrying into a greater income. Indeed, he thought, she might be his greatest ally at Longbourn. Thus another letter of condolence was written, to Mrs. Bennet, informing the woman that it covered one to her daughter, a proposal of marriage. He gave this packet to a servant to post, and then there was nothing to be done but wait.

* * *

 

_December 15, 1811_

"I publish the banns of marriage between Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of Longbourn, and Mr. Collins, of Hunsford. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it: This is the third time of asking."

Elizabeth listened to the banns in that mixture of sorrow and dread she had known since her father's death and Mr. Collins's proposal. Had she known tMr. Bingley was to return, was not to stay in town for the winter as his sister had said he would, and had she known he was to return and offer marriage to Jane, she most certainly would not have accepted Mr. Collins's proposal. Mr. Bingley had been surprised at learning of Elizabeth's betrothal, but it had been no impediment to him making his own declaration, and now Jane had the greatest comfort that could be had, at such a time, in the gentle sympathy of her husband-to-be.

Whenever the tide of dread rose too high, Elizabeth considered breaking the engagement. She considered it, and she desired it more than anything she had ever desired, and yet she would not go through with it. Some women, in some engagements, might be able to do so with little damage to their reputations, but Elizabeth knew that would not be true for her situation. To break an engagement merely because another man had stepped in to provide her family the promise of security would be to expose herself to their neighbourhood as fickle, and ungrateful. Nor was she entirely sure she would prefer being dependent on Mr. Bingley over being mistress of her own household, and in command of her own pin money, even if it meant she must be married to Mr. Collins.

Still, it was a relief to have him gone from the house, if just for a little while, for he had returned to Kent to settle his affairs there, and take his leave of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Of all the misfortunes surrounding her father's death, it was but one of them that Mr. Collins was living with them when Mr. Bennet had passed, but it was one Elizabeth felt acutely. Not only was he there, to offer her marriage at such an inappropriate time, but there had also been no formal handover of the house, due to his constant presence. One day, he was a guest, and the next, he became the master. And in three days, he would become her husband.

* * *

 

_December 20, 1811_

When a fortnight passed with no response from Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy began to fear he would not receive one at all. He thought over his letter, and wondered if it was too businesslike, not affectionate enough. He wondered if merely asking for her hand in marriage, when she was already betrothed, had been abhorrent to her – so abhorrent, that she did not even think it worth a response. He wondered if her response had been misdirected in the post, or his own letter had gone astray, or whether he had been wrong about Mrs. Bennet's willingness to give his offer to her daughter.

Misdirection of one letter or another could, at least, be rectified, and now, finally, Darcy ordered his trunk packed, and his carriage readied. Later that day, he saw the wedding announcement in the papers. He was shocked, at first – he had not thought things should progress so fast as they must have, with the Bennets in mourning. Further rumination, however, brought him to the conclusion that society would have been more judgmental over Elizabeth Bennet's living in the same household as her betrothed – with no other man about the house – for an extended period of time, than it would be over her marrying so soon after her father's death.

Then he turned his thoughts over to despair, for his despair upon understanding that Elizabeth was now irretrievably lost to him was complete. She was lost to him, and whether it was by choice, or by lack of knowledge that another option existed for her, he alone had been responsible. _Oh, Elizabeth! Poor, lovely Elizabeth, to be locked in matrimony with such a man!_

Darcy amended his orders, now, that the journey should be a return to Pemberley, that it should be delayed until after Christmas, and that Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley should prepare their things as well. For that was his only desire, now, to take his sister and return home.

It was too late to make any improvements as a lover, but he could improve himself as a brother, and as a man. There might not be any promise of happiness in that, but there would be satisfaction, at least, in correcting his ways, in better doing his duty. That was all he had to live for, now.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_June 20, 1815_

Elizabeth had not been in society, aside from church and meeting with her tenants, for the better part of a year, and she felt both eager anticipation and a little trepidation as the carriage took her and the remaining Bennets to dinner at Netherfield. The remaining Bennets were her mother, of course, and Mary and Kitty; Lydia had married Lieutenant Denny, the natural affections she had felt greatly magnified by the promise of moving out from under Mr. Collins's roof.

The curbing of her younger sisters's indulgences had perhaps been the only beneficial change at Longbourn that Mr. Collins had instituted. Allowances had been required to be strictly adhered to, boarding school had been threatened, and in the end Catherine had become far more reasonable, and Lydia had at least left in a respectable manner. For a time, Mary had, unfortunately, become even more severe under Mr. Collins's influence, but even she had eventually seemed to understand what a poison he had been upon the household, and most particularly on his wife.

Both Catherine and Mary had seemed happier, with Mr. Collins removed from the house, but they could not be described as fully happy. Elizabeth hoped that with herself now out of mourning, she might provide both of them with more chances for happiness: more opportunities to exhibit, for Mary, and more society and perhaps a beaux or two for Kitty, for Elizabeth was a bit surprised that her younger sister had shown no eagerness about following Lydia in to matrimony, but thought perhaps the right man had not yet come along.

Tonight, however, she would focus upon her own happiness; she would give herself over to the enjoyment of being in society again, for even if Mr. Darcy was to be among the guests, surely there would be others who were amiable and good company. The introductions were made in the drawing-room, a rather long string of them, for what had begun as a small house party had become Charles Bingley thoroughly filling Netherfield with his guests. It was only after the introductions were complete that Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy, standing at the edge of the room much as he had used to do. He looked older; she supposed she did, too, but Mr. Darcy seemed to have aged much more than the time that had passed should have allowed. His complexion was more tanned than when she had known him last, as well, although it was nothing extraordinary for a man who spent a good amount of time out of doors. What surprised her more was his expression, which she had remembered as being aloof and proud. Now it seemed to her more aloof and sad, but then he surprised her still more by smiling at her, and making his way over to where she stood.

"Mrs. Collins," he said, giving her a bow so deep she wondered if he was mocking her.

"Mr. Darcy." She gave him a curtsey in equal proportion; if he _was_ mocking her, she would mock him in return. "Thank you again for your condolences on the death of my husband. It was good of you to write."

He acknowledged this statement, and inquired most civilly about her health, and that of her family. These she gave a favourable answer to, and then asked after his own health, and that of his sister. To this he replied that they were both well, and he had just been visiting his sister, in Gibraltar.

"Gibraltar!" exclaimed Elizabeth, before she could help herself. That Mr. Darcy's sister had somehow come to live in such a place was so incongruous she could scarcely believe it. She made to begin apologising for such an outburst, but he spoke first, saying:

"You are surprised, of course. She married a naval captain, and he was posted to the Mediterranean, so she chose to take a house there, to be nearer to him."

Elizabeth was even more astonished to hear this, for marrying a naval captain did not seem the sort of thing the proud young lady that had once been described to her would have done, nor something her proud brother would have condoned.

"My congratulations to her. I hope she is pleased with the married state?"

"Yes, very pleased. She – she had been disappointed once in love, so I am glad to see her so happy, now. I do wish she did not live so far away, however. Pemberley is not the same without her."

Here his countenance once again took on something of sadness, and Elizabeth wondered if it was loneliness, that gave him such an expression. Having volunteered this information about his sister, and yet mentioned nothing of a wife, Elizabeth presumed he had not married. She recalled something about a betrothal to his cousin, Anne de Bourgh, and knew that young lady had lost her life to a lengthy illness, having been informed of it by Collins some months before his death. It had seemed an arranged marriage, to Elizabeth, but perhaps there had been true affection; it was the only thing she could think of that should cause his present expression, beyond the absence of his sibling.

"Was it not dangerous, with war once again broken out?" she asked, seeking to divert the subject.

"I had sailed there before Napoleon escaped, thankfully, but it did mean my stay was of longer duration than was expected. After Waterloo, it seemed sufficiently safe to make my return."

"I would like to hear more about Gibraltar, sometime," Elizabeth said, seeing that everyone was beginning to line up to go in to dinner. "I have travelled so little in the past few years, so I must take my voyages vicariously."

"Of course. I would be happy to oblige you."

Only as she walked away did Elizabeth realise that she had voluntarily engaged herself for another conversation with Mr. Darcy at some point in the future. Yet he had not been so disagreeable as he was in the past – in truth, he had conversed so pleasantly she could hardly believe he was the same man she had known before. But then, people could change in the course of several years; she most certainly had.

* * *

Although Mrs. Bingley had provided an excellent meal, Darcy could hardly eat, in his present state of excitement. Elizabeth – _glorious Elizabeth!_ – was just up the table from his seat amongst the unmarried ladies and gentlemen. She was there and looked as lovely as ever, in the palest lavender dress, laughing and conversing with those beside her. He had wondered, upon learning she was once again a possibility due to Mr. Collins's untimely demise, if he had spent the past few years making her more wonderful in his mind than she truly was, maintaining a love for an imagined Elizabeth rather than the real one. But she was every bit as he had remembered her, and he believed he loved the real Elizabeth even more, for there were details and nuances to her that he had forgotten.

Oh, those torturous early days, after reading of Mr. Collins's decease. How he had longed to go to her, to declare himself. It had been Georgiana who had counselled patience, after he had opened up his heart to her. Georgiana, who had regained her confidence and her happiness, who was mature enough to be giving him advice, now. Nothing should be done while Mrs. Collins was in mourning, except to send a letter of condolence. He had hoped, perhaps, that his letter might become the beginning of a correspondence between them, but her response, while polite, had left him no opening; there was nothing within that could be responded to.

So he had waited, and tried to determine some natural way in which he could be returned to her acquaintance. In that, his encountering Charles at White's, and making his apology and the first overtures of renewing their friendship, had been the deepest blessing. Their friendship was not what it once had been; it had been renewed with caution, and still felt a delicate, awkward thing. Yet it had been renewed, and Darcy was grateful for it, even beyond its providing the opportunity for him to be here. How impatient he had been in Gibraltar, upon receiving Charles's invitation to the house party at Netherfield. Of all things, to be kept from his second chance by war!

But he was there, now, and he would seize this second chance, although he would keep Georgiana's counsel and go about things patiently. If Elizabeth had received his proposal and rejected it, she could not have spoken to him tonight in the manner she had, without any degree of awkwardness. He had to presume, then, that she was unaware of his affections, for he had done nothing to indicate them during his previous acquaintance with her. He would do so now, gradually, and seek to understand her own. She was a widow, and he could not yet know what the state of her heart was; perhaps she had come to love Mr. Collins. Elizabeth glanced down the table at him, and he smiled. She returned the smile, and even this simple thing gave him hope.

Darcy made an attempt to apply himself to the food, so as not to be caught looking at her too often. When next he did look in her direction, he found her frowning, and wondered at what could have caused this. She did not look at him, this time, and eventually he returned his attention to his neighbours at the table, and to his food.

Too soon, the ladies made their exit for the drawing-room, although at least this gave him a better look at her figure as she left, and he found it every bit as pleasing as it ever was. He was not the only man there who found Mrs. Collins pleasing, however; he soon learned Mr. Althorpe was most vocal in his praise of the young widow's looks, but with much agreement from the other single gentlemen, and for the first time Darcy realised he might well have competition for her hand, a thought that filled him momentarily with paralysing fear.

"She ought to marry soon," Mr. Althorpe was saying. "A woman, trying to manage that estate on her own – she'll run it down in no time. It wants a man's management."

"She seems to have done well enough with it in the last year," Darcy said, with his heart pounding, for he detested confrontation, particularly with new acquaintances.

"I am sure that is only because she kept with whatever procedures her husband implemented. It will be once she starts getting womanish ideas in her head, and acting upon them. That will be when she destroys her own income. Unless, of course, she marries me."

This prompted laughter from all the men around him, save Darcy, and he wished Charles was seated closer to him, for surely Bingley would have assisted in the defence of his sister, if he had overheard Althorpe.

"And where is your estate, Mr. Althorpe?" Darcy asked, knowing it was not likely Mr. Althorpe, the younger son of a viscount, would have one, and it was very possible he never would.

"Haven't inherited it yet," Mr. Althorpe said, pouring himself more brandy. "Fine little property, from my mother's side of the family, but it would be preferable to have Longbourn while I wait, particularly when it comes with such a fine-looking wife to warm my bed."

"Might it not be said, then, that Mrs. Collins has more experience in running an estate than you?"

The men laughed again at this, one of them saying that Darcy had Althorpe there, and thankfully the subject moved away from Mrs. Collins following this. From the occasional glares Darcy received from Mr. Althorpe, however, he felt certain he had just made himself an enemy. Yet he was glad he had done it, even if he had been discomfited by it; he did not like the thought of Elizabeth being spoken of in such a manner.

It was a relief, when the butler came to tell them that tea was ready in the drawing-room, but Mr. Althorpe, being nearer the door than Darcy, made his way thither more quickly, and Mrs. Collins was his object. Darcy watched, fuming, at the man's making every effort to render himself agreeable to the woman he had demeaned earlier. To his surprise, however, Darcy was rewarded not five minutes later, when he watched Elizabeth disengage herself from the conversation, and make her way over to where he stood.

"If you are at leisure, Mr. Darcy, I wonder if I might hear from you about Gibraltar now," she said, quietly.

"Of course," he said, trying to quell his feelings of delight and triumph, so they would not reach his countenance. He led her over to an open sofa, and then proceeded to provide her with any details of the town he could remember, and stories of the voyages there and back. His delight continued as she showed herself fully engaged in all he spoke of, nodding at his descriptions and asking questions to glean further details.

"Oh, I have entirely monopolised your time!" she exclaimed, when it became clear that some of those who were not staying at the house were calling for their carriages.

_You may monopolise my time forever, Elizabeth!_ he wanted to say, but did not.

"Not at all, Mrs. Collins. In fact, I thought to provide more of my time, if you wish it, to come and look at Longbourn's books – to offer my advice on the estate." He did not know if she would take this offer, or even if she thought of herself as needing advice, but he did wish to give his assistance, and this was the thing he was best suited to assisting her in.

"Oh, yes, because a woman cannot run an estate! Surely I must require your _advice_ ," she said, furiously.

A sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Were his chances already ruined?

"Of course not. Someone so clever as you should have no difficulty in running an estate," he said, softly. "I – I know what it is to be given such a responsibility at a young age, and at least in my own case, I did not have anyone to turn to, that I could ask for advice. I had always relied on my father for guidance, and when he was gone, I found I had his responsibilities, and no longer the benefit of his counsel. I only meant that if you desired my advice, or simply wished for someone to talk over matters with, I would be pleased to give any assistance that I may. I apologise – I never meant to demean you."

"It is I who should apologise," said she. "Your offer was very kindly meant, and I am sorry that I spoke so sharply to you. Mr. Althorpe said something to me during dinner, and I suppose I am still a little sensitive over it."

He found himself relieved, both that they were returned to understanding each other, and that Mr. Althorpe had already revealed his true self to her.

"Pray do not worry yourself over it, Mrs. Collins. It cannot be easy, to be in your position."

She nodded. "I would like your advice, Mr. Darcy, if you are still willing to give it."

"Of course."

"Would tomorrow be convenient for you to call?"

He replied that it was, now very well pleased that he had offered his advice, and then she took her leave to go and see to her carriage's being called.

* * *

Elizabeth was still changed for bed by one of the maids; she had lasted less than a week under Hill's services in the mornings and evenings before the exclamations of her mother over how far she had come down in the world as a poor widow had achieved their desired effect. Elizabeth was not overparticular about such things, and anything that won back a little of her mother's goodwill was a useful thing. Mrs. Bennet had been relieved, at first, at Elizabeth's accepting Mr. Collins's hand in marriage – it had been the only thing to put a stop to the hysterics that had ensued following Mr. Bennet's death. Yet Mrs. Bennet had not entirely thought through that this meant her least-favourite daughter was to supplant her as mistress of the house, and even now, she continued to find new and inventive ways to chafe over this.

Mrs. Bennet should have had little to complain over; she had been allowed to move back into her old room, following Mr. Collins's death, her daughter taking the master's bedchamber. This was a greater sacrifice than Elizabeth had let on, for it was a room that held many unpleasant memories for her. She had ordered the furniture rearranged, primarily to move the bed, and had redecorated it in as appropriate a manner as she could while in mourning. The servants at Longbourn had accepted their mistress's sewing of new bed hangings and linens in black fabric as an activity of her mourning. Elizabeth's only care had been to make the bed look different, and if black was required to do so, she would do it. Now, she thought, she might choose something new, something bright and cheerful. Now, she was allowed to be cheerful, instead of keeping her smiles and good cheer hidden.

It was wrong, to be so pleased that a man was gone from this world, and yet Elizabeth could not help it. When it had happened, when one of the men from the local hunt had come galloping back to Longbourn to say that Mr. Collins had been unhorsed, and died there beside the fence he had fallen upon, her knees had given out, and it had rapidly become common knowledge in the neighbourhood that the widow Collins had fainted, upon learning of his death at such a young age. Yet Elizabeth had collapsed in _relief_ , not grief, and it had been difficult, in the following weeks and months, to play the part of a mourning widow. She had mourned the man in her actions, but could not mourn him in her heart, or her mind. Not the man who had ordered her about, with no respect for her thoughts or wishes, who reminded her mother and sisters regularly of his _largesse_ , in allowing them to stay there at Longbourn, a man who treated his servants and tenants so poorly.

Elizabeth shook her head. She tried not to think about those days. She desired only to remember the past as it gave her pleasure, and there was very little pleasure to be remembered from her married life. She would much rather think of Mr. Darcy, and what an agreeable turn he had taken, conversing with her for so long and so easily, and forgiving her with every politeness when she had spoken so harshly to him. He seemed completely altered, and for the better.

He was still the man who had wronged Mr. Wickham so severely in the past, however, and Elizabeth was not sure that a man who could commit such a wrong could wholly recover from his inherent character. Yet Mr. Wickham had also given a poor account of Mr. Darcy's sister, and Elizabeth would have thought such a proud creature as he had described, and one with so many accomplishments, would be pleased only by marrying a nobleman of some sort, not a man in service to his country. And certainly she would not then have moved to a provincial outpost, to be nearer to him, and to be described in great detail by Mr. Darcy as a sweet, kind, loving young lady. If Mr. Wickham had been untrue in one part of his account, was it possible he had been untrue in others?

Elizabeth considered these things as she went about the room, extinguishing the candles, the last done carelessly, so that it smoked a little as she climbed into bed. This was the place where she made the most effort to forget about her married life, and had the least success. Mr. Collins had not been a considerate man anywhere, and the bedchamber had been no exception.

Sometimes when she closed her eyes, Elizabeth thought for a moment she could still feel the ghost of him touching her. A stout man on his wedding day, Mr. Collins had bade his wife to keep a good table, and had availed himself of it thoroughly, growing more and more corpulent, his fat, sweating belly slapping against that of his wife as he pumped in and out of her. This Elizabeth remembered most vividly, despite her every attempt to forget it. She remembered the foul odours emanating from his body, the horrid taste of his mouth when he kissed her, and most of all, the pain, not just the first time, as she had been promised, but every night. A pain substantial enough that when Mr. Collins had made her go to town to see an accoucheur, to explain why she had yet to conceive his heir, she had set aside her embarrassment and told the physician of it. He prescribed sweet oil. She lied to her husband, and said it was meant to help with the production of a child.

The oil had lessened the pain a great deal, but a child had never come, and there were no other male heirs to Longbourn. So when Mr. Collins had bequeathed all of his worldly possessions to the fruits of his wife's womb, or failing this, his wife, those possessions had included Longbourn. Elizabeth had freedom, now, as well as security, and never again needed to endure what she had in this place.

She shuddered, and turned so she was facing the empty half of the bed. This was how she preferred to sleep, so that if she dreamt of her married life – and she did, often – she would wake and recall that it was over, reassured by the emptiness of her bed.


End file.
